


Episode Seven Coda

by sans_souci2



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:34:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8758735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_souci2/pseuds/sans_souci2
Summary: Episode  7 CodaRiggs wakes up sick. Yesterday's water torture wasn't particularly good for his lungs.Trish and Roger take care of him.Oh... and a few walls get broken down in the process.





	1. A Very Different Enemy

Early morning sunlight is just beginning to play across the family room carpet and glint off the impressive collection of beer bottles on the coffee table. Murtaugh is the first to wake up. He stretches and grunts and after a few minutes sits up and squints. The Stooges have been replaced by a movie. _Airplane?_ A second later Peter Graves in full pilot regalia confirms the fact. It’s a great film but not one he wants to wake up to.

Remote found, Graves is vanquished and it’s time to turn and give his partner a good look. As if on cue, Riggs starts to wake up. His eyes open in slow motion, bloodshot and bleary. The confused look on his face is almost comical. _Almost._ Before either of them can say a thing, out of nowhere a wicked coughing fit grabs hold of Riggs. It’s nearly a minute before it’s over.

“Jesus buddy you sound like hell. “

“Thank you for the -” Whatever Riggs is about to say is extinguished by another coughing fit . When he straightens up his expression is pained and beads of sweat dot his forehead

“Where the hell did that come from? Did I miss you smoking a couple packs last night?.”

Not answering Riggs drops his head back against the sofa and inhales carefully; no way he wants to set off another bout of coughing. In a fair or even halfway fair world he’d be left alone to figure out why the hell he felt like shit. Not just hung over shit, but serious shit. Head pounding, chest aching, hot and cold at the same time shit.

“Are you sick or something?”

_It’s so not a fair world._

Murtaugh’s hand on his forehead makes him reopen his eyes. He tries to meet his partner’s worried look with a glare but it’s a weak attempt. “Jus leave me alone.” 

“Damn it Riggs. You’re burning up. What the heck is going on?”

“I dunno. You and I drank some beers last night and a few hours later I wake up feeling like it’s the middle of Hell Week.”

"What the hell is Hell Week?”

“Never mind.”

“Riggs, I mean it. I think you need a doctor.”

That gets him to sit up. “I do not need a doctor. All I need is my bed. If you’ll excuse me… I’m gonna head home and curl up in it for a week or so." He gets about a third of the way up off the sofa when his legs feel like rubber. _Shit._ He sits back down.

“Babe who are you talking to? What are you doing up so early?”

_Trish ?._

She’s halfway down the stairs before he brings her into focus.

“Yeah It’s me… me and Riggs actually,” Murtaugh answers. “And we ah…we have a problem.”

“No we….don’t,” he grits out before another coughing fit sweeps over him. This time he can’t help grimacing and wrapping an arm around his throbbing ribs. Bright lights explode behind his closed eyes. Suddenly he flashes back to the water filled barrel-to filthy water rushing up his nose and down his throat. His chest burns the way it did last night. “Shit, that bastard really messed me up.”

“What bastard?”

“What’s wrong Riggs?”

"He's sick, that’s what wrong. Answer me Riggs. Who did what to you?”

“That guy who made me last night … when I got in the blonde's car?”

 “Yeah?”

 “He thought he’d get some intel by shoving me headfirst into a barrel of water.” Fighting back another cough he admits ruefully, “I didn’t even know what he was asking about.”

“And he just kept going at you?”

“Pretty much.”

“You pass out?”

“I think….I might have, for a minute maybe.”

“Oh Riggs- that’s horrible! “

_No. Don’t ._

In a split second Trish is across the room and on the couch next to him. Her hand on his forehead is cool like her husband’s but softer and lighter. And she smells good. He tries to return her smile but because his head is pounding the way it is, a grimace gets added to the mix.

“You Mr. Riggs are heading straight into bed.”

"No…. I-”

“Do not waste your breath. Come on Roge, help me get him upstairs.”

____~____

It takes both Murtaughs and all their strength to get Riggs up to the guestroom As soon as he’s sprawled out on the bed Trish leaves to get some Advil and Murtaugh starts tugging his partner's boots off.

“Jus ‘ lemme be,” Riggs protests, doggedly pawing at the bedclothes- trying desperately to get under them.

“Whoa hold up, that’s a bad idea buddy. “

"No it’s not. “Im fucking…freezing.”

“Actually you're fucking burning up-“

“Watch your language Roger!"

_Trish is back already?_

“The kids are going to be up any minute now.”

 _No._ He doesn’t want anybody else seeing him like this.

“Sorry baby but this cowboy wants to snuggle under the covers which is, if I’m not mistaken, a bad idea.”

“Of course it’s a bad idea. And while we’re at it, so are those clothes of his. You need to get him out of them, Roger.”

“Whoa. Trish. I mean- really?”

“Yes really. Your partner is burning up. If you don’t want to be calling 911 you better get him cooled down. “

“Ok but he's not going to like it."

"That, detective, is, as we say in the legal profession, irrelevant. Before you get started let me give him this Advil. Come on, Riggs. Sit up. You need to take these.”

 _Shit Shit Shit_ He hates what he’s hearing He opens his eyes and sees two tan tablets in her hand. _At least they’ll knock his damn fever back._ He rears up on one elbow and takes the tablets. As soon as they're in his mouth Trish brings a glass of water to his lips. “Here you go,” she says tipping it gently. He swallows. A second later he swallows harder fighting back a wave of nausea. Thankfully he wins that round.

“Good,” she tells him. “Now lie back and let Roger take care of you. “

“I’m fine- really I am. I jus need a blanket-I’m freezing,”

“No honey. You do not need a blanket. Your fever is wicked high; a blanket will just trap that heat in. Once Roger gets those clothes off of you, you can have a sheet and that’s it. “ She turns toward the door, “I’ll give you boys some privacy. Feel better Riggs.”

He hears the door close. A minute later he feels his partner drop down next to him.

“I guess we better do this pal.”

“She’s kinda….bossy,” he slurs.

“Oh you ain’t seen nothing yet. Come on let’s do what she told us to or else she’ll be back in here doing it herself and, trust me, you do not want that.“

 “I’m fine I tell you. I don need you taking my damn clothes off.”

  _Oh shit._

On cue to prove him a liar, a cough rumbles up from deep in his chest. Each spasm draws his shoulders up and sends a wave of fiery pain through him.

“’For the last time Riggs, you are not fine. Here you go, we’re gonna do this.”

He bats at Murtaugh’s hands when his partner starts unbuckling his belt and grits out desperate “No!”

“Don’t give me that no, buddy. I’m a dad. This ain’t my first rodeo. I’ve nursed the kids through plenty of fevers. You’re in good hands.”

Only half of what Murtaugh is saying is registering. _I really am messed up._ This time the adversary is all but unbeatable. No amount of SEAL training can give him a leg up on his attacker. A weak, breathy cough works it’s way up his windpipe as if to convince him of the fact.

_I give up._

He sinks back against the mattress,spreading his arms out in surrender.

“That a boy, let’s do this.”

Murtaugh’s hands are suddenly everywhere. Riggs' shirt is unbuttoned and off in seconds. His belt is unbuckled and off even faster. When Murtaugh unzips his pants he raises one hand in a warning gesture.

"Now what is it?

“I…I got no… drawers on “

Hands still working, Roger answers trying to keep the tease out of his voice. “Oh really? So is going commando a SEAL thing?”

“No... it’s a… no clean underwear thing.”

“Well it’s just us guys and I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything I haven’t already seen. Come on. Lift up for me and lets get these off. There you go. I’ll even cover you up for a sec while I grab a pair of boxers from the laundry room.”

Eyes closed, lying there with a corner of a comforter across his bare midsection he listens to Murtaugh’s footsteps moving away.

_Boxers?_

Truth be told he's a briefs man but feeling as bad as he does, he’s okay with changing things up. In fact, even though he’d never admit it, he’s okay with being where he is, with being bossed around by his partner and Trisha. Fighting back another coughing fit he closes his eyes.

_Sometimes you just gotta let someone else have your back._


	2. Chapter 2

Trish stops in the doorway.

_Damn_

Martin is stretched out on their guestroom bed.

_In all his glory._

The man’s ever present army jacket has been hiding some crucial evidence if you ask her. She hangs back in the doorway enjoying the view. Her eyes rove. Roger is sitting in the upholstered chair they thought the guestroom needed. He’s pulled it up next to the bed; his back is to her. Bless his heart. She smiles,knowing she has his proxy to enjoy the view.

Same proxy she's given him.

 _Nicely done_ , she says to herself, smiling  at how he’s tucked Martin into bed. All the bed covers except a sheet are neatly folded back at the foot of the bed. The sheet comes up to Martin’s waist on one side; on the other it rides a little lower, revealing a pair of blue and green plaid boxers. _Funny. Roger has identical boxers_. She takes a step into the room and stares. She can’t help it. The chiseled definition of Martin's chest and abs is breathtaking. _The man is a fine specimen_. On his right side, where the sheet rides lower she sees the start of a teasing indentation that leads from his hipbone down into his boxers. A narrow ribbon of downy hair leads downward from his navel into his low slung boxers. _Sweet jesus._ She clears her throat and when Roger turns his head whispers, “I see… you were successful?”

"Yeah,” he answers. “Eventually. Our cowboy here fought me tooth and nail the whole time but as you know I can be quite convincing. “

“I do know that,” she agrees, not taking her eyes off Riggs. “When did he fall asleep?”

“A few minutes ago.”

She nods then sees something that makes her frown.

“What?”

“He's breathing…awfully fast.”

“I know-it’s probably the fever.”

“Probably.” She takes a few more steps into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed, “So what do you think is going on with our friend?”

“Beats me. All I know is he seems pretty sick. I probably should have just hauled him to the ER like I threatened to.”

“Well we can certainly still do that. What made you back off?”

“I don’t know…he just seemed so adamant about not seeing a doctor,

“I wonder why?”

“Let me stop you right there. Trying to discern a rational motive for Riggs’ behavior is only going to drive you out of your mind. Trust me. No logical reason exists for ninety-nine percent of what this man does.”

“I don’t buy it,” she says softly. Ignoring her husband’s eye roll she steps beside the bed. Her expression darkens. “Roger?”

“What?”

“Did you not see these bruises?”

“Of course I saw them.”

“Well where did they come from?”

“Hmm...let me see. Yesterday’s I-wanna-die-stunt involved hanging from the back of a speeding truck and when said truck’s driver tried to dislodge Mr. Invincible here, he got slammed against the side of the truck a few times."

“Oh my God. He could have broken some ribs.”

“That he could have.”

“Roger Murtaugh that blasé attitude of yours is incredibly unattractive!”

The angry glare Trish flashes at her husband stops him cold-the way it does every time she unleashes it.

“I’m sorry babe.”

“As you should be.”

“I… I just never had partner like Riggs. He’s …he’s crazy.”

“And yet you care about him-you care very much.”

“Damn right I do. Don’t ask me why but I care about this guy more than I do folks I’ve know for years instead of weeks.”

“I hear you," she whispers lying the back of her hand on Riggs’ forehead After a few seconds she pulls her hand away and looks up, “It’s the same with me. I should have demanded that you get another partner the instant I heard about Martin's antics and yet…here we are.”

“Here we are.”

They lock eyes for a second; years of learning about each other flowing between them. They both smile before Trish looks away. Her eyes travel to the swatch of blue and green fabric peeking out above the sheet covering Riggs.

“So I see Martin wears the same kind of boxers as you?”

“No. Those are my boxers.”

“Why is he wearing your-“

“Do not ask Trish. Please. “

Giggling, shaking her head, knowing there’s a good story waiting for her later she says, “All right, if you insist. Come on let’s let our friend here get some sleep. I hear her highness, Ms. Harper stirring. You go make sure the other kids are up and I’ll grab her."

“You got yourself a deal.”

 ____`____

 

Harper is in her high chair nibbling Cherrios and watching Riggs’ dog who stands lookout for any little delicious circles that might come his way. She's so intrigued by the mutt her big brother’s entrance barely earns a glance up.

Trish on the other hand has a big smile on her face the minute her boy walks in the kitchen. “Good morning RJ, breakfast is on the table.”

“Hey Mom, welcome home!" 

"Thank you."

"Hey, is there a reason Dad is up there hugging Riggs and Riggs is in his underwear? _Only_ his underwear?”

“What!”

“I know. It kind of shocked me too.“

“Your father and Martin had some beers last night so Marting stayed over. When he woke up he was sick with a high fever so we put him in the guest room. Last time I checked he was asleep. I highly doubt your dad and his partner are hugging.”

Shrugging, shaking his head RJ isn't convinced. “I don’t know. That’s what it looked like they were doing. Maybe you better go up and check it out?”

“Maybe I better.”

“Better what?”

“Good morning sweetheart. I’m just going to check on your Dad and Martin. “

“Yeah, what’s up with them?”

“You saw them too?”

Riana nods giving her mom a quizzical look.

“You brother can explain,” Trish tells her.

“Hey, where did that dog come-” Riana doesn’t bother finishing. Her mom’s already halfway up the stairs.

_______~_________

_A few minutes earlier-_

“I …I gotta go. Lemme go!"

“No Riggs. Lie down.”

“I can’t. She told me to meet her. I have to-”

Murtaugh’s stomach knots, “Who told you to meet her?”

“Miranda. She was here! Come on, lemme go.” Suddenly Riggs launches up out of the bed. When his feet hit the floor he tips forward hands clutching at thin air to keep from falling.

“Whoa buddy, careful!” It feels strange wrapping his arms around his partner’s bare body but there’s so much heat coming off of him he gets over it pretty damn quickly. “You’re burning up partner. It’s making you hallucinate. Come on, let’ s get you back in bed.”

“Wha?" Riggs tilts his head to get a look at Murtaugh.  Eyes bloodshot, pupils dilated, it’s like he’s not even seeing what’s in front of him. “Just lemme go.”

“No can do. You’re sick buddy. Here, let me help you.”

“I don’t nee’ your help!”, Riggs is bent over by a sudden, out-of-nowhere coughing fit. This one is the worst yet. His shoulders heave, the muscles up and down his bruised back knot into tight cords. He’s gasping in pain and to get his breath at the same time.

“We got to get you back to bed Riggs. Come on, let me help you."

From the doorway, “Roger. What’s going on?”

“Trish! Help me. Get in here!”

"What's going on?"

"Just help me, please!"

Both of them throw their arms around RIggs. His violent coughing is taking every ounce of what little energy he has out of him, his legs buckle as they hold on to him.

“No…do’n do this t’me,” he begs. "Jus lemme go see her.”

The anguished look Trish flashes her husband says she gets it- gets the merciless way Martin’s fever is toying with him.

“We’re not doing anything to you, Martin," she tells him. "We’re just trying to help you.”

“Okay fine ! If you wanna help me, let me die,” he chokes, tears sliding down his cheeks. "Let me die now!"

“No Martin. Stop. Listen to me!”

It’s like the wind suddenly goes out Riggs. He sways unsteadily between them, head down, legs barely supporting him.

Her lips up against Riggs' ear Trish's voice is steel-edged. “It’s not your time to die-do you hear me, Martin Riggs? You still have a lot to do on this earth. Good things- probably great things. Miranda would kick you butt eight ways to Sunday if she heard you tying to duck out of your destiny. Do you hear me?”

A soft, helpless sob is Riggs' only response. At first. Eyes glistening with tears and unnaturally bright with fever, the look he gives Trish makes her own eyes fill. Then he gasps, “I…I hear…you."

"Okay. That's good. Here you go buddy. Let's get you back in bed. That's it. Good man."

Trish hears the way  Roger is babbling as they lower Martin into the bed and loves him for it. The man's heart is huge. She wants to feel his arms around her - to sit down with him and plan how to help Martin but as she pulls the sheet up she sees something. "Oh my God Martin. Look!"

For a second they both stare in silence at the blood-flecked saliva on Martin's chin and chest. Roger is the  first to break the silence.

“That’s it,” he swears, pulling out his phone and punching  in a number.  “This is Detective Murtaugh , badge number 789926, I need EMS at my home now! 3125 Woodlawn Avenue, Los Angeles.” He listens then answers, “No not for me, for my partner.” After another pause, “Yes this is an officer down call. For God’s sake hurry! “

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse is sending me too many Riggs H/C vibes!  
> I had to stretch this fic to three chapters.


	3. Chapter 3

Trish locks eyes with the man in front of her-the way she does with any unfortunate she has to straighten out in the courtroom. “Dr. Ferguson," she asks, "what exactly do you mean by near drowning pneumonia?"

Surprisingly, Ferguson doesn’t flinch. “I mean Mr. Riggs' pneumonia is the result of fluid aspirated into his lungs when he came close to drowning. It's a common-”

“Please Doctor. His name is Martin.”

“But this …this kind of pneumonia," Roger asks, "It’s treatable, right?”

“Yes. Hopefully.”

“Why not absolutely,” Trish snaps.

Still not fazed. “So, most of the infections resulting from near drownings are caused by organisms which are quite treatable. But there a few that…well, that are tougher to deal with. We don’t have results back from the lab to tell us what bacteria we’re dealing with but the rapid onset and severity of Mr. Riggs', I mean Martin’s illness is concerning-”

“In what way?”

“We’re worried we may be dealing with an unusually virulent pathogen.”

“But no matter what… pathogen you’re dealing with, there’s a drug to treat it with, right?” Roger asks.

“Usually, yes, ” Ferguson answers looking into the glass fronted ICU room where Riggs is being transferred from a gurney to a bed. “It’s just a matter of identifying the culprit early enough-before the patient is too weak.”

Trish and Roger follow his gaze, wincing at the fact it’s taking two men to lift Martin off the gurney. He looks like dead weight in their hands; his arms and legs dangle limply as they move him. Ferguson sees what they're seeing and when he continues his voice is less business like. Even a few degrees warmer. “Your friend is young and healthy”, he reassures them. “He should be able to fight this thing without any problem”. Focusing on Trish, he continues, “You know, I get the sense you and I might be a lot alike.”

“How so?”

“I hate to lose.”

Trish’s wan smile tells him he’s pretty much got her pegged.

“And maybe as the result of that,” Ferguson continues “I rarely do. Trust me, I take every case personally and expect to do nothing other than to win. You folks should grab a coffee let the nurses get Martin settled. Give them about 15 minutes and the you can go in and see him. If you have any questions here’s my card-my pager number is on there.”

“Thank you doctor,” Roger says, "we really appreciate it. Sorry if my wife, I mean if we came on a little strong.  We…we just really care about our friend in there.”

“Don’t give it a second thought-trust me, I get it. Emotions can run high when a loved one gets sick.”

“That they can,” Trish says staring through the glass at Riggs and reaching  behind her for Roger’s hand.

_____~______

_Cedars Sinai Hospital-Microbiology Lab_

Figuring out which bacteria is wrecking havoc with a patient used to be like playing detective and chess and the craps table all at once.

But now?

Now it's different.

With all the genetics based tools at his fingertips Dekes Ferante feels like the job has become more than a little ho-hum

Interestingly that all changes when he scans the intake form accompanying a sputum culture.

Martin Riggs, thirty-year old male. Diagnosis:pneumonia. Okay so that’s not page turning stuff. It’s when he gets to the special remarks section that things start to get interesting. Near drowning. Water source unknown.

_Unknown?_

Dekes’s pulse quickens. He wonders what kind of water this guy was submerged in. If it was still water and especially if it was warm still water,  things could get pretty exciting pretty quickly. They might be dealing with one of the Vibrios or maybe even a nastier player. He flips to the second page of the printout and scans the lines of small type until he gets to what he’s looking for.

_Holy fuck. Acinetobacter?_

“You are one unlucky dude,” he says out loud, wondering right away if the patient is military since twenty-five percent of the troops returning from Iraq and Afghnaistan are colonized with the bad ass, drug resistant bug. Good news for them-as long as their immune systems were intact the troops never knew they were hosting anything lethal.

_But, in a near drowning?_

All bets were off. Organisms hanging out in a dude’s nose were one thing. Flushing the same bad boys deep into his lungs could unleash a most wicked shit storm. Dekes glances at the form for the patient’s room number.

_C4- 332._

Bingo.

The guy’s already in the ICU.

Eyes back on the form, Dekes finds the attending physician’s name and pager number. Alan Ferguson. _Good._ He grabs a phone and punches in the number along with his extension. Then he hangs up and waits. He’s glad Ferguson is the attending; the guy knows his shit. When the phone rings seconds later he grabs it and says breathlessly, “Hey Doc it’s Dekes-I got some bad news about your near drowning dude.”

“Care to share a name and medical record number just to be sure were talking about the same patient?”

“Oh yeah sure, so last name Riggs, first name Martin, medical record number 8776434.” Dekes doesn’t mind that Ferguson always busts his chops about following the rules.

“So what do you have?”

“It’s Acinetobacter."

Damn it! I’m guessing you don’t have sensitivities?”

“Not yet.”

“It’ll probably be MDR.”

“Yeah since multi drug resistant is pretty much this player’s middle name.”

“Anything else show up?”

“Not anything worrisome. A little Staph and a little Pseudo. It's the Acineterbacter we got to worry about. How’s this guy doing, doc?”

“Not great-febrile, tachy, 02 sats dropping and the shittiest lung sounds I’ve heard in a long time.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“I don’t have a choice-I have to start him on Colistin. I can't sit around and let things go to hell while I wait for sensitivities. “

“Even if there’s a small chance this mother fucker is sensitive to something less toxic?”

“You read the same studies I do, Dekes–when’s the last time an Acinetobacter bug laid down and died for an easy to tolerate antibiotic?”

“A long time ago?”

“You got that right. Page me as soon as you get those sensitivities- okay? If for some reason this guy gets lucky and I can stop the Colistin before it starts causing trouble I want to know.”

‘Will do doc. Hey before you go-is this guy military?”

“No. He’s a police detective.” Ferguson pauses. “I guess he could have prior to that though. You want me to find out?“

“Yeah, please. And if the answer is yes find out exactly where he served. Some of the Acinetobacter species’ sensitivities vary by geographic region. If we run into trouble, our military MD buddies might be able to help us fine tune this dude’s treatment.”

“Will do, talk to you soon Dekes.”

“Roger that doc.”

_______~_______

“How’s he doing baby?” Back from checking in at home Trish is worried that Roger is standing out in the hallway instead of sitting next to Martin’s bed where she left him.

“They’re giving him some kind of treatment… to help his breathing.”

“Is he worse?”

“I…I don’t think so. I think they’re just trying to stay ahead of this thing.”

Trish glances into the room, taking in the two therapists flanking Martin and all their paraphernalia. The pained look on the poor man’s face breaks her heart. Make that everything about him breaks her heart. He’s slumped forward trying his best to inhale through a tube in his mouth but every few seconds he's racked by a coughing fit. His hospital gown is untied and hanging half off of him; different colored wires snake out over the neckline like tethers. "Oh our boy so hates this Roger."

“You got that right. He was almost lucid a few minutes ago and offered me a large amount of money to spring him out of this place.”

“He didn’t?”

“Swear to God he did-" Something down the hall catches Roger’s eye; his smile suddenly disappears. He straightens up, stepping away from the wall where he’d been leaning. “Doctor? What’s up?” No way does he like the look on the man’s face.

“I’m glad you’re both here,” Ferguson answers. “I have some news. It’s … not good.”

 _Talk about cutting to the chase_. Roger braces himself, taking a deep breath.

“What is it?” Trish asks, mirroring her husband's ramrod posture.

“We’ve identified the bacteria causing Martin’s pneumonia.”

“And?”

“And it’s one that is particularly hard to treat. Basically it’s resistant to a whole slew of antibiotics.”

“Most but not all?”

“That’s correct.”

“So you’ll give him one it’s not resistant to, right?”

“Right. That’s our plan.”

“What are you not saying, Doctor?” Trish asks.

“The antibiotic that is generally successful when it comes to treating this bacteria is not an easy drug to tolerate.”

“Explain please,” Trish says.

“Colistin is the drug we’ll be using. It’s actually a very old antibiotic, one we stopped using when newer drugs became available-”

“Stopped using why?”

“Trish, let him finish.”

“It’s okay Mr. Murtauge, We stopped using Colistin because it was known to cause renal and neurological problems. In some patients kidney function diminished markedly-sometimes to the point that dialysis was needed."

“Permanently?” Roger asks.

“In a few cases.”

“You mentioned neurological issues?” Trish says.

“Yes. Some patients develop tremors and mental confusion and sometimes, seizures.”

“But this drug? It’s effective against the bacteria that’s making Riggs sick, right?” Roger asks.

“It is. “

“And there’s no other antibiotic that would you could use?”

“No.”

“So …we don’t have much of a choice?”

“No we don’t”

There’s a resigned synchronicity to the way Roger and Trish’s’ shoulders droop. Looking through the glass at Martin they lean in toward each other, neither of them speaking.

“He’ll be okay baby,” Roger finally says pulling his wife close against him.

“Of course he…will-" is all Trish can get out before her lip quivers and she has to bury her face against her husband's chest.

_____~______

 

God or Fate or whoever is calling the shots that day seems to be, for some reason, on a damn warpath as soon as the Colisitin is started.

Roger watches his partner sieze and shake and it’s all he can do not to wrap his arms around him in a futile attempt to ward off the demons the damn drug conjures up.

It’s like the poor guy read the possible side effects panel and is hell bent on developing every one of them.

Within 24 hours his kidney function tanks

Soon after that intermittent bedside dialysis happens.

Mental confusion is in no way an adequate phrase when it come to describing what Riggs goes through.

When the Colistin is infusing Riggs is flat out, out of his mind. Add his high fever to the mix and it’s like someone else lives in his skin.

Sometimes it’s a Navy SEAL.

“I’ve got to go help my men!” Riggs cries out at one point, trying desperately to sit up only to drop back and cough so hard every alarm over his bed goes off.

“Shh, take it easy Riggs,” Roger tells him, holding him tightly while his nurse quickly replaces the tubing under his nose with an oxygen mask.

“No!” he screams batting her away. Batting them both away. “My team is still out there. I got to get to them!”

“We’ll get someone to them," Roger promises, playing along instead of correcting. He runs his hand over his partner’s brow, leaning in close to murmur over and over again, “Don’t you worry, buddy. Don’t you worry.”

Sometimes it's a grief-crazed father. "He was my boy!  I should'a taken care of him."

There is nothing to say to that. Trish and Roger just hang onto him-just make body contact anyway they can while he sobs.

And so it goes.

Between Roger and Trish and then when it becomes too much for them, between the two of them and Cahill they hold vigil beside Riggs’ bed, reassuring and settling him and when words fail, just holding onto to him.

It's been four days of the wicked Colistin dripping into him every eight hours when Ferguson tells them it looks like Riggs might be out of the woods. By then Trish’s mom has flown in from Philadelphia and is staying at the house with the kids and there’s a cot in the corner of the room which is against the rules but stays put because it turns out Ferguson is a fearsome warrior when it comes to stupid rules.

It’s a Tuesday, late in the afternoon when Riggs truly wakes up.

Like most of life’s blessings, no one is expecting it.

“Hey Roge...” he slurs sleepily.

Murtaugh sits up doing a comical double take. “Riggs?”

“Wha’s going on?’’

“What’s going on? What’s going on is you buddy."

“Huh?”

“You been scaring the hell out of us pal. You’ve been in the ICU for four days. You… you doing okay?”

Brow furrowing dismissively, Riggs is unimpressed. “I’m fine. I mean I cou’ use a Coke but I’m... okay.”

“You do know you’ve had all of us here sitting vigil at your bedside, scared as hell you were going to die?”

“Is tha- a fact?”

“It is.”

“I really appreciate that Roge.”

“Appreciate what? “ Trish asks, barely believing what she’s seeing as she crosses the room

“He...y Trish.”

“Hey yourself. You gave us quite a scare Martin.”

“I di’ent mean to-“ he says and then, out of nowhere he's squeezing his eyes closed and bracing for something.

It's  back.

“Martin! Are you okay?”

He can’t answer. His shoulders jerk forward violently; he's fighting for air.

"Hold on there Mr. Riggs." A nurse, a new nurse, is suddenly next to him, adjusting a knob on the wall to send more oxygen through the tubing under his nose. “Take it easy she tells him. Don’t try to do so much talking just yet. You’ve been through quite a rough patch.”

When Riggs finally catches his breath he looks up at her, confused and puppy dog-like and asks, “Are…you from Texas?”

“Plano,” she answers popping a stethoscope in her ears. She moves it  over his chest, spending more time on the left side where there's the most black and blue and purple. “It sounds like you just might need another breathing treatment," she tells him.

“Nah, I’m…good.”

“You let her be the judge of that you knucklehead,” Roger hisses watching the nurse punch a number into her phone. “Is he okay? He’s okay isn’t he? “

“I think he’s fine,” Trish answers for the nurse who is busy talking to someone about a nebulizer treatment. “I think he just overdid it."

“And what else is new,” Roger huffs.

“He’s fine,” the nurse confirms after she hangs up. “We just need the respiratory folks to come do their thing. Right Mr Riggs?"

“You…re very... pretty,” he answers.

“Why thank you, Mr. Riggs.”

“Call...me... Martin."

"I don't believe it!"

"Roger!"

"What? Look at him! He can barely talk but he's putting the moves on his nurse right in front of us after we've been here by his bedside for how long?"

"Roger?"

"What?"

"Tell Martin you're glad he's feeling better."

After a considerable pause and like a chastised child, "I"m glad you're feeling better."

"Thanks ... buddy. I ... I owe you."

"You owe me nothing other than getting back on your feet and doing your fair share of the-"

"Roger!"

A look passes between the two of them. Trish is the first to smile. Roger drapes his arm over her shoulders as soon as she does.

"We're going to head home now Martin," Trish calls into the room.. "You get some sleep."

"I'll check in on you tomorrow buddy," Roger adds.

Riggs is quiet. The monitors over his bed are quiet. His chest rises and falls evenly.

In the doorway, before they head down the hall to the elevators, Roger and Trish take a last look.

"He's a special man, Roger. We're lucky he came into our lives."

Surprisingly, without hesitation, "That we are."

-fin-

  
 


End file.
